Discipline 6

After the untimely death of her father, Madelyn moves to the ranch owned by her Uncle Pete and Aunt Bernie. She's very grateful to her aunt and uncle for taking her in, as her sheltered upbringing in her father's remote cabin has left her ill-equipped to survive in the world alone; but she struggles to adjust to some of the rules in her new home - like the chastity belt that she's required to wear, and Aunt Bernie's strict condemnation of masturbation. When Madelyn is caught trying to find alternative ways to satisfy her sinful needs, she's in big trouble. Dark rating, 9k words.

Content Warnings/Tags: Incest (cousin/cousin and uncle/niece, with some pseudo-incestuous or sexually charged interactions between aunt/niece and father/son); religious-based sexual repression and misogyny; nonconsensual but nonviolent anal penetration; corporal punishment, including belting/whipping; nonconsensual use of sex toys as punishment

Madelyn had only herself to blame, really, for breaking her aunt's rules.

Her aunt and uncle had been really kind to take her in after her father's death. She didn't have anyone else, after all, and the state hadn't offered any help; eighteen-year-old girls don't have any place in the foster system. They thought she should be able to just go off and live on her own, no matter that she'd spent her whole life in the shelter of her father's rural cabin, learning domestic duties and how to live off the land. She had no idea how to survive in the outside world, how to handle money or use a computer.

So she understood how fortunate she was to be taken in by her Uncle Pete and his family, that she'd been given an opportunity to earn a place on their ranch as long as she worked hard. She was grateful, truly she was.

And she knew the problem she was having was one of a...a sinful nature.

It was reasonable, honestly, very reasonable, that Aunt Bernie asked her to wear the chastity belt. To be sure that Madelyn didn't provide any temptation to Uncle Pete or to her cousin Sam, who was only a few years older than she was.

But it was a difficult change for Madelyn, after so long living alone with her father, having indulged for so long in what she now knew were bad habits. She had become used to engaging in a little private sin whenever her father went out hunting, thinking that a quick prayer after was enough to make up for it, that there was no real harm in exploring her own body.

Now she understood better. She'd spoiled her body, made it expectant of pleasure that should really only come from a husband's touch, from the holy act of procreation.

Aunt Bernie had explained it to her--very sternly and in illuminating detail--when Madelyn had, shamefully, asked for some release from the belt to relieve herself; Aunt Bernie had explained that this torment was only what she deserved, if she'd welcomed the Devil in that way.

"If you're fiddlin' with yourself and there's nobody else there," Aunt Bernie had said severely, "Who do you think you're making hay with, exactly? Certainly not the Lord! You've been going around spreading your legs for Old Scratch and all his army of demons whenever your daddy weren't around to watch you, and now you're paying the price for it. That's all. And I don't want to hear any more about you needing to touch down there. A good faithful girl doesn't need any of that."

So Madelyn hadn't asked again.

But she knew Aunt Bernie had told Uncle Pete--knew from the way he looked at her more critically, shook his head like he was disappointed with what he saw--and that she had told Cousin Sam, who started watching her more closely when they worked on chores together, like he expected her to start trying to sin at any moment, to squat right there in the middle of the yard and start trying to pleasure herself.

It made her blush with shame. Even worse, despite knowing now how wrong her actions had been, the sinful desires lingered.

She tried ignoring it. She tried scolding herself. She tried finding distractions. She tried praying for relief, apologizing tearfully for her sins.

And yet, as the months turned into a year and then to two, her body only ached more acutely.

It became more and more difficult to stay quiet during her nightly hygiene sessions with Aunt Bernie. Madelyn's whole body thrummed with tension as she, under her aunt's close supervision, placed her briefly-unlocked privates under the bathtub faucet to rinse them clean.

This was the only stimulation there that she was ever allowed, and it was excruciating, the way the water would caress her sensitive places and light up all the needful feelings in her. She always felt only seconds away from finishing by the time Aunt Bernie barked at her to turn the water off. It was always a fight not to moan as the water played over her skin, and then a fight all over again not to cry in frustration when the pleasure was taken away again and the metal belt--unpleasantly cold from being rinsed in the sink while she washed--was locked into place once more.

Madelyn had worked up the courage to beg, only once, if there were any other way she could wash herself down there, perhaps with a cloth.

Aunt Bernie had given her a hideously stern look, as if suspecting her of trying to conceal some more insidious motive, and then--to Madelyn's horror--had called in Uncle Pete to fulfill Madelyn's request.

That had been awful. She'd been made to stand in the shower and spread her legs so that her uncle could massage between them with a soaped-up washcloth.

As Aunt Bernie had likely anticipated, the very idea of her strong, no-nonsense Uncle Pete knowing of her continued struggles with sin was deeply mortifying to Madelyn; so she had grit her teeth and forced herself to remain stock-still the entire time, staring resolutely at the ceiling and fighting with every last drop of willpower against the powerful urge to twitch and grind her hips into the delicious pressure of his hand, the rippling texture of the cloth.

It had nearly been a disaster. Every drag of his hand had brought her closer and closer to an accident, and yet she'd been too humiliated to asked him to stop--because then she would have to explain why, and she kept thinking that surely, surely he was about to stop anyway--until she was on the very edge, taking long, deep breaths to keep from flinching and trembling, grappling dizzily with the thought of what she would say to her uncle if she lost control of herself and had a messy finish all over his hand like a whore.

With the question of whether it would be worth it, to finally have the pleasure and the relief.

And when he had finally stopped, she had been so overwrought that she cried out before she could stop herself, her whole body swaying forward to try and follow his retreating fingers, because she had been only seconds away from completion.

She had been lashed firmly across the rump with a leather strap for that, her aunt scolding her up and down for finding a way to use the measly five minutes out of her belt to try and seduce her own uncle. The torture of the lashing had been exquisite, the sensation somehow marrying with the thudding, urgent need in her sex until she felt as if the pain itself was transmuting to pleasure and she had to brace herself against humping her hips shamefully into what was meant to be a punishment.

***

Eventually, Madelyn began to feel hopeless, to wonder if she hadn't ruined herself forever. After two years under her aunt and uncle's supervision, the aching hadn't subsided at all, and she was beginning to have thoughts that she knew were shamefully depraved.

When she was given one of the ranch's ponies to ride to do chores further from the house, she couldn't stop thinking of how wonderful it would feel to grind down into the saddle and feel it rocking up against her, if only the belt weren't in the way.

She thought often, too, of how much she wished she had just given in that one day and rode her uncle's hand, even fantasized that he might have encouraged her to do it--that he might take pity on her and hold her close, quieting her needy moans against his chest as he gently massaged her to glorious completion...

And, most shamefully, she thought about what it would have felt like if the lashing afterwards had been not just across her rump, but instead over her dripping sex, whether that pain-pleasure would have driven her into screaming, sinful relief.

These fantasies came to her most often at night, when she lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep for the throbbing between her legs but not wanting to keep Cousin Sam awake with her tossing and turning.

She would sometimes reach down then, tugging at the belt and shivering as she felt the very gentle stimulation of it pressing against her crotch--hopelessly wishing that this time, perhaps, she could find a way to bring herself to finishing, even if it was a shameful and sinful deed. Just once, just so that she might sleep easier, might clear her minds of these awful obsessions, relieve her body of this aching tension.

This was, eventually, how Madelyn started the habit of touching her breasts.

It began with her laying on her stomach in the bed, trying to keep her hands away from the belt, and eventually giving in and rutting her hips into the bed instead, burying her face in the pillow and fantasizing about being taken from behind by some faceless man--her future husband, or, as her fantasies grew more desperate, just any man at all, as she began to guiltily hunger for a villain to steal into the house in the night and take her by force, anyone who would be willing to fill her hungry body and satisfy her sinful cravings.

The movement of her breasts against the bedding had made her tremble. She had sought out the friction, pressing down into the sheets, and then eventually she had started to use her hands: rubbing and squeezing through the soft fabric of her sleep-shirt, strumming her fingers over her nipples as they pebbled up and begged for attention.

It made the throbbing under her belt even more urgent, but it felt so good that even that punishing frustration couldn't convince her to stop, and soon it became part of her nightly routine. She would lay there in the dark and touch her breasts, rub and pluck at her nipples, until her sex was pulsing and leaking through the belt, leaving a damp patch on her sheets, her hips twitching helplessly.

She should have known better.

It was all part of her sinful addiction, after all, and she should have known that it would only escalate. The throbbing, clenching need wasn't restricted only to the secret nighttime hours, after all; it followed her into the waking day, distracting her from her work, filling her with depraved thoughts when her uncle or cousin stood too close to her or placed an innocent hand on her shoulder.

Soon, she was finding opportunities to rub her breasts all throughout the day--any moment she was alone in the kitchen while cooking, or out in the barn while feeding and watering the animals, she would steal little moments to thumb her nipples over her shirt, or to tug at her bra to feel the fabric rubbing against them, biting her lip to hold back the needy cries and panting that wanted to break free from her throat at the teasing stimulation.

And then her Cousin Sam had said something to her, something that inspired her to go even further.

They had been out in the barn together, moving bales of hay, and he said, "You handle it really well, you know. The belt. I wouldn't be able to take it. But I guess things are different for women, huh? Pa says you're the purer sex and all that. More patient."

Madelyn had immediately felt her face heating, and knew she must be turning bright red. "I, um. I would rather not--not talk about it."

"I just don't know how you stand it. I need to rub off all the time."

Madelyn said nothing to that. She knew it was true. She'd heard him more than once; Sam had a habit of indulging himself right behind the barn, moaning and cussing with satisfaction as he took himself in hand, and didn't seem to care whether or not Madelyn was in the barn working where she'd have to hear him.

Occasionally, she even had the thought that he might be doing it on purpose--waiting until she was there so that she would hear him--but that couldn't be true. It was an ungenerous, paranoid thought, spurred on by her sinful envy of his freedom.

After a moment of silence, he said, "I've heard some women are like that, too. Needing to finish. If they're in a belt like you, they'll go through their other hole to feel good."

"Other hole?" Madelyn squeaked, her eyes widening at the implication. Surely he couldn't mean--

"You know. Their asshole. The way city girls do it so they don't get pregnant." He tossed another bale of hay up into the loft and nodded at her seriously. "But I know you'd never do that. You're not dirty like that, right? And you don't need it, anyway."

Madelyn had stammered out some sort of vague agreement, and had been deeply grateful when he'd changed the subject.

But Sam's words had run in her head, chasing round and round in her mind.

That couldn't feel good, surely. Touching there, it wouldn't...that was just filthy. She couldn't possibly. The very idea was deranged.

But...if it did feel good...

If she would finally be able to get some relief, so that she just wasn't burning so desperately with need all the time...

Like with her breasts, it started at night. Just one finger at first, questing back between her cheeks, just brushing lightly over the furl of skin there, and...it hadn't felt good, exactly, not the same way that touching her sex had felt before she'd been locked up.

But there was something about it, and once she had started, it was hard to stop.

Over time, she became emboldened, and then enflamed enough to actually--to her own red-faced astonishment--work a finger inside of herself.

At first it just felt strange, very strange, but then she learned how to curl it in the right direction and--

Well, it became much harder to stay quiet at night.

The first time Madelyn felt that shock of muffled pleasure, a throbbing echo of the sensation she remembered from toying with herself before her father's death, she gasped out a wanton little cry, a pleading "Oh" of surprise and need.

She immediately pulled her finger free and rolled over to bury her face in her pillow, muffling her panting whimpers. Her body burned and throbbed and begged for her to keep going, in spite of the flash of nerves that had come over her when she'd heard her own voice breaking the silence.

Of course, she didn't dare give in to those carnal demands. That was a long night, indeed, lying awake, listening for any sign that Sam might have heard her across the room and studiously not thinking about how easy it would be to push her finger inside again and maybe--maybe--

But she had been lucky, very lucky that Sam hadn't heard her. And if Madelyn had been wise, she would've stopped right then.

But, of course, she had not.

No more than a few nights later, she was teasing her twitching, dry hole once again, biting back the desperate sobs that wanted to break free at the shuddery prickles of sensation that washed through her, stoking the fire in her loins. And, once she was half-mad with need once again, cocooned in blankets and muffling her panting into one arm, she pressed her finger in again--deeper--and curled it up, until she was massaging her desperate, empty sex through the thin dividing wall of her rear.

It was amazing. It was intoxicating. It made her sex tremble and drip, until her thighs were thoroughly wet with evidence of her sin, the inside of her belt so swamped that she would have to take care to climb into the bath first before allowing Aunt Bernie to unlock her at bath time or it would be all too obvious that she had been doing something forbidden.

It wasn't enough to bring her to her peak. Only tantalizingly close, until she could almost remember--almost imagine--what it would feel like to finish, what a glorious release it would be, the severity with which the pleasure would overtake her...

It wasn't enough. But it was addictive.

Like with her breasts, Madelyn's craving for sensation grew so strong and so ever-present that she soon no longer kept her explorations to the cover of night. During the early afternoon, when she often had the house to herself--Uncle Pete being out seeing to the further pastures, and Cousin Sam the nearer ones, while Aunt Bernie went out visiting with the neighbors--she would take advantage of the empty house and sneak into the pantry to steal a little bit of cooking oil, which she found provided so much ease that she could even add a second finger to her explorations.

Still, no matter how close she brushed to finishing, no matter how deliciously full she felt from the twist of her fingers, climax remained just out of reach.

She was beginning to think, with some despair, that she would never feel that amazing relief again; perhaps this was God's punishment for her sins, that she would always burn with need and never be satisfied.

But, even so, she couldn't help but try.

And try she did, nearly daily: skirts hiked up around her waist, panting and writhing on her fingers in the dim pantry as she plucked at her nipples with her other hand, biting her lip to muffle her whimpering cries.

And that was how Aunt Bernie found her.

So, really, Madelyn understood that it was entirely her own fault. She'd behaved shamefully, sinfully, and her suffering now was nobody's fault but her own.

There had been a great deal of shouting--on Aunt Bernie's part--and crying--on Madelyn's, and then Aunt Bernie hauled her out to the shed and ordered her to strip.

Then, once Madelyn was dressed in nothing but the belt, her skin pebbling up and her nipples standing out embarrassingly sharp in the cool outdoor air, Aunt Bernie slapped a pair of leather cuffs around her wrists and hung them from a nail on the wall. The nail was too close to the ceiling for Madelyn to stand comfortably, forcing her up onto the balls of her feet, and Aunt Bernie tutted at the sight.

"Well. These are meant in case of some intruder sniffing around the house or stealing tools from the barn, so they're set at a height for a man, but there's nothing I can do about that. You'll wait right there while I fetch something to fix you up."

She turned and stomped off, slamming the shed door behind herself and leaving Madelyn sniveling pathetically in the little outdoor room, dimly lit by the sunlight that filtered through the gaps in the wood, her thighs damp with the foul evidence of her sin dripping through her belt.

Madelyn prayed that Sam was well-occupied with his chores and wouldn't need to come into the shed for anything.

Only a few minutes later, Aunt Bernie returned with a roll of duct tape and two little plastic pill-shaped devices that she held up for Madelyn to see. "You know what these are, girl?"

"N-no, Aunt Bernie," Madelyn sniffed.

"Well. You like fiddling with your cute little ta-tas so much, I thought you'd appreciate this," her aunt muttered darkly. She twisted one of them, and it began to hum quietly, and then she stepped forward and--

"Ah!" Madelyn cried in shock when Aunt Bernie pressed the vibrating device right against one of her nipples. "I--Aunt Bernie--"

"Oh yes? You like the feel of that, do you?" Aunt Bernie demanded, her tone scathing. Madelyn's eyes filled with tears again, but she couldn't deny it; the vibrations were shooting straight through her, making it difficult to balance as her body wanted to squirm and dance. "Well, you'll get your fill, don't you worry."

She took the device away for a moment, but only long enough to tear off a square of the duct tape. Then she was back, pressing it into Madelyn's breast once more so that the tape stuck to Madelyn's skin, securing the little thing in place so that it buzzed mercilessly directly on Madelyn's sensitive nipple. Then Aunt Bernie turned on the second device and did the same with Madelyn's other breast.